


Easy (when you know how)

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Drowning, Early in Canon, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Manhandling, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: "The bard could build a fire, sleep rough and stay (mostly) out of his hair during fights. There were, of course, things he refused to do, like skin a rabbit or run for more than a few minutes. He couldn’t stay quiet to save his life."~Jaskier doesn't know how to swim and Geralt figures it out when the bard almost drowns during a hunt. So the witcher decides to teach him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 116





	Easy (when you know how)

Very early on, after the bard mistook Geralt’s silent hostility for an invitation to join him on the path, the witcher often asked himself, ‘Why? Why did he accept this fate, why didn’t he ditch Jaskier the first time he got the opportunity to do so?’ The bard was bright and colorful, way too loud and chatty, always whining questioningly about this and that. So different from himself, an oddity.

But to be perfectly honest, and even though Geralt would never say it out loud, he liked the foolish human. Companionship was hard to find in his line of work, and even if the singing was a bit annoying, it beat talking to his horse all day.

Although Roach never talked back the way Jaskier did, with easy familiarity, unafraid of him since the first day. He couldn’t tell why that was, and he could only surmise that the bard was too stupid to realize how dangerous following a witcher really was.

But Jaskier laughed in the face of danger – before running to cover rather cowardly – whether it was from forest creatures or angry spouses. The idiot seemed to be rather proud of his exploits in married people’s bedrooms, and it was a wonder he was still invited to play at any court, if half of the crazy tales he told Geralt were true.

As it turned out, however, the poet could ride – he even had a horse, which he had lost to a greedy merchant after a game of Gwent. Geralt helped him win it back, reasoning that it only meant less complaining if Jaskier wasn’t traveling on foot. He should have left him in that town, and galloped away on Roach, but he didn’t. 

The bard could build a fire, sleep rough and stay (mostly) out of his hair during fights. There were, of course, things he refused to do, like skin a rabbit or run for more than a few minutes. He couldn’t stay quiet to save his life. But all in all, Geralt could manage Jaskier’s annoying traits. Having him around meant laughter around the campfire – not from him, as all he allowed himself was a stifled smirk – someone to listen to stories he had already told his brothers numerous times, and something to occupy his mind when days got boringly similar. 

Jaskier was curious, but he also didn’t care for the answers. If it didn’t fit his song, he changed it – reality was a flimsy thing for poets, it seemed, and they were able to bend it at will. Or maybe it was just a Jaskier-thing; Geralt didn’t know enough artists to compare.

He kept the names, sometimes, when they rhymed and sounded mysterious enough, and imagined the rest. Most of the time, Geralt was pictured as an invincible warrior, which was both strange and weirdly flattering. 

But Jaskier’s fascination for witcher adventures was surely bound to die once he had his fill of stories and gruesome experiences, Geralt thought. The witcher wasn’t bitter or anything, it was just that humans weren’t supposed to follow grumpy witchers. It was just the way things were.

*

His first clue that the bard wasn’t in fact right in the head happened very early on, some time after their brief stay in Dol Blathanna. They had gotten beat up by Elves and a Sylvan, and yet Jaskier still followed him – a brooding stranger who wanted nothing to do with him. Geralt supposed that getting an Elven replacement for his broken lute was enough to cheer his spirits up.

By then, the Valley of Flowers was long behind them, and they were traipsing through a desolate land, ravaged by conflicts and plague. Jaskier’s tunes got snarky, mocking stupid kings and their senseless battles. Geralt didn’t stop him because the soldiers were either long gone or lying in shallow graves along the path. 

The carrion attracted all sorts of creatures, and soon Geralt had to dismount and unsheathe his silver sword when they started to attack. He didn’t check where Jaskier was, because he trusted the fool wouldn’t get too close to danger. At least he stopped singing.

The stench was horrible, and what had to happen happened – the last Rotfiend exploded before Geralt could dispatch it. He stepped aside and rolled away, effectively avoiding most of the rotting guts, but Jaskier didn’t get so lucky. He was too close and ended up splashed with blood and entrails from head to toe. He flailed and nearly fell backwards tripping over his own feet and finally sitting down in the mud.

That was it, Geralt thought. That was the end of their time together. The idea of danger was one thing, but actually getting drenched in monster guts was another – it was a witcher thing, and surely where the bard drew the line.

But then pearly white teeth flashed in the middle of his blood covered face, and Jaskier laughed, the imbecile, shrill with excitement bordering on horror. 

“What in Melitele’s tits were those things?” he said. He tried to wipe his brow and winced – it had to sting. 

“You should wash up, there is a stream down…”

But Jaskier shook his head, sending bits of gore flying everywhere and vehemently refused. “It’s cold, and dangerous, I’ll be fine,” he babbled.

He grabbed his waterskin and wasted its contents on his face and hands, washing the worst of it. His doublet was beyond ruined, and Geralt sighed in anticipation for the moans and complaints that would soon follow. He could have dumped his ass in the river, solved the problem, but he wasn’t Jaskier’s guardian, and if the man wanted to stay soaked in Rotfiend blood until they reached a town with baths, it was his own problem.

*

Summer in the valley meant stifling heat, blue skies, and not much in terms of witcher contracts. It seemed like evil retreated when days became long and wheat grew golden in the fields. It nearly made Geralt feel poetic – at peace. Money was tight, but when wasn’t it? At least camping in the wilderness was pleasant.

Jaskier, on the other hand, whined about the sun, mosquito bites and the impracticality of their sleeping arrangements. 

“If you’re not happy, buy your own tent!” Geralt had replied, “Or better yet, leave me alone!”

But there was no real heat behind those words, and they both knew he didn’t mean it. He liked seeing Jaskier get lyrical about the gorgeous landscapes and the lone clouds overhead.

They set up camp next to a small creek, and the temperature drop near water was a relief to both of them. Geralt didn’t complain as overtly, but he could feel sweat drying up on his back and in his hair. He still built a fire, because it would be their only source of light once the night fell, no moon tonight.

Jaskier was already washing up on the shore by the time he joined him, sitting on the grass with his feet in the cool water. Contrary to the bard, Geralt took off everything but his small clothes and waddled a little farther where the stream was picking up. The water was shallow and so clean he could see his toes on the rough sand at the bottom of the river. It must have been coming straight from the glacier up the mountain because the difference of temperature made him sigh in contentment. 

From where he sat, Jaskier just watched him with an unreadable expression. Geralt didn’t know what it meant and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Maybe the poet was having second thoughts following such a brute. Before he could ask, Jaskier started talking, words fluttering by like butterflies.

“Did you know that soap is made of ash and fat? And yet it smells so good… Oh I wish I still had that lavender scented one from Toussaint, and…”

Geralt just smiled from where he floated, looking at the darkening sky. Jaskier made no move to either stop blabbering or join him in the steam, so Geralt decided to take the matter into his own hands. He silently swam closer to an unsuspecting Jaskier and waited until he was mid-tirade about the glory of summer, arms outstretched and not paying attention. He pounced. Snatched his wrist, tugged. Jaskier overbalanced and fell face first into the water.

He surfaced a second later, spluttering, and threw himself at Geralt to retaliate. 

The witcher suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him, as he was pushed underwater. Looking at the bubbles rising to the surface, he remembered play fighting at the lake near Kaer Morhen, where they went to escape training and chores.

He grabbed Jaskier’s waist from under the surface and flipped him over easily. But then Jaskier started kicking, and Geralt released his grip as if he had been burned. The bard waddled to the shore and got out of the river, silent and dripping. Maybe he didn’t like getting his clothes wet, Geralt thought confusedly – which made no sense because in that heat they would dry fast enough. Maybe he hurt him without realizing – humans were so fragile after all. 

“Look, I’m sorry, I got carried away…” he stumbled over words, because how could he explain witcher childhood memories anyway. 

Jaskier took off his shirt, wrung the water out of it and laid it out on the grass next to the fire. Then he just sat there with his chin on his knees. He looked small and sad, like a snuffed out candle. It just wasn’t right. 

That night, Geralt learned that if Jaskier was loud all the time, he got very quiet when he was upset. The silence had never bothered him before that, but as he lay wide awake next to the fire, looking at Jaskier’s still form, his back turned away from him, it was deafening. 

*

They parted for a while, and found each other again in autumn, when the leaves started changing colors. Jaskier greeted him like an old friend, which was a bit off putting but Geralt didn’t comment.

“I needed to get closer to nature,” Jaskier explained on the path with wide gestures. He was horseless again, and this time Geralt didn’t bother helping; there was probably a convoluted story behind the animal’s disappearance, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

“All those summer competitions get boring after a while,” he added in a sunny voice, but Geralt saw right through him.

“You lost, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I got robbed of my prize! I got cheated and disrespected!” Jaskier whined. He was gesticulating again, walking in front of Roach, getting louder and louder. 

“I’m sure you were great,” Geralt said with a smile, because he felt like saying something nice.

“I was more than great,” Jaskier exclaimed. “The greatest!”

Geralt tuned him out for a while after that, because Jaskier started enumerating all the ways he was good and the other competitors weren’t. The witcher started drifting off, because he didn’t know enough about poetry, music or lutes to really appreciate the explanations. 

The path looped lazily through a forest, alongside a small lake; dead leaves crunched under foot and it smelt like a swamp more than a lake. Birds flew overhead, and Jaskier launched into a debate to decide whether they were blackbirds or crows. Geralt shouldn’t have cared, he shouldn’t have raised his head to check by himself.

What a stupid mistake, he thought in a flash, as something blue and scaly jumped from the murky lake and pulled the bard underwater. Jaskier didn’t even have time to scream.

“Drowners,” Geralt swore, taking his sword out. 

Three more surfaced and attacked all at once, as if they knew the witcher wasn’t an easy prey. He twirled and hacked, eyeing the water on his left and not seeing ripples anymore. As if Jaskier had never even been there. 

Once the last monster was gutted, he jumped into the muddy lake, without taking off his boots or his armor. They would weigh him down, but he didn’t care, he was trained and needed to be fast. 

The lake was deeper than it seemed from the shore; the water was so turbid that the light could hardly reach the bottom, covered in rotten branches and mud. And yet he frantically searched where the drowner might have dragged its victim. But he couldn’t see any bubbles rising, he couldn’t see anything.

Blood. Dark brown in the dim light, enough to send a cold pang of anguish in his guts. An image came back to him, another lake, a long time ago. There was a boy, who ran to escape a kikimore; he hit his head on the ice and fell through. The beast didn’t even touch him, and yet he drowned in frozen waters. 

Not today, Geralt thought, as he searched for a sign, anything. He didn’t pay attention to his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, still slow, but getting faster with the lack of oxygen. He still had time, time that Jaskier didn’t have. 

He followed the blood and came face to face with the corpse of a drowner, guts spilling in the water. That was a surprise; he wasn’t expecting the monster to be the bleeder. 

A flash of blue, lighter than drowner skin; there he was, utterly still, floating with his arms outstretched. He was still clutching a small dagger, but his eyes were wide open, unseeing, fixed on the darkness below. There was still time, Geralt thought, he could breathe for him, thump on his chest until he woke up. He just needed to bring him back to shore.

But when he grabbed the back of his doublet, Jaskier started flailing, startling the witcher. Geralt was still reeling as he started kicking the water, but he kept a hard grip on the bard. Why would that idiot fight and then… give up like that? It made no sense, even for a weird man like Jaskier. 

They reached the surface and the poet started coughing and wheezing, but the sounds he made meant he was actually breathing. They were still far from the shore, and Geralt helped him move in the right direction, pushing and pulling, never letting go of his drenched clothes. Jaskier had the buoyancy of a brick and kicked him in the shins many times before they made it back on dry land.

Geralt quickly searched for injuries, running his fingers through wet locks of brown hair, but he found none. 

“Why didn’t you swim?” he asked with a huff, angry at the bard for scaring him. Even if it really was his fault for not seeing the drowners before it was too late. 

Jaskier looked at him with eyes the color of the lake, too big in his pale face, but didn’t say anything. His teeth started chattering, reminding Geralt that humans and witchers weren’t feeling the cold the same way.

“You weren’t moving,” Geralt said again, and then his voice broke. _I thought you were dead_ – but he didn’t say it out loud. 

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said with a tight smile, but it felt like a huge lie.

He took off his waterlogged boots with shaky fingers. There was a rip in his pant leg, and all Geralt could see were the angry marks on his skin, where the drowner had gripped. 

“I can’t swim,” Jaskier whispered, not looking at him. “Never knew how.” He sounded sheepish, but also annoyed, like it was Geralt’s fault somehow.

“You wave your arms and legs around,” Geralt said unhelpfully. “You go in the direction of the sun.” _You don’t just float there waiting to die._

“Well some of us can’t see in the dark,” Jaskier reminded him with a shrug, which was a lame excuse. “Now how about you do that thing with your fingers and build us a fire,” he stuttered, shivering uncontrollably, “before I freeze to death.” 

They didn’t discuss any of it, because Geralt wasn’t good with words, and Jaskier had a knack for avoiding serious conversations, despite being able to speak for hours on end. Once the poet was safe, dry and not shaking anymore, it was like nothing had ever happened. A worthy defense mechanism, Geralt mused as he fed damp wood to the struggling fire, listening to Jaskier talk about his plans for the winter. 

Geralt knew he often gave lectures at Oxenfurt, but it was hard to imagine him, all serious in front of attentive students. He suddenly wished he could be present at one of those classes, disregarding how out of place he would look and how useless poetry was to a witcher. Or maybe that was just what he needed – a bright-eyed idiot who viewed the world as wonderful and who could spin any sad story into a masterwork of rhymes and powerful images.

If Jaskier saw how deep in thought he was, he didn’t say, and kept talking until they parted ways again.

*

Finding Jaskier came spring proved harder than he anticipated; the bard was usually the one to run into him, always seemingly by accident, but maybe he was more cunning that he looked. He knew Jaskier had met Eskel once or twice, and maybe the other witcher had told him which routes Geralt preferred and which inns he stayed at when snow started melting and he made his way down from Kaer Morhen. Or maybe it was just dumb luck, always a possibility with Jaskier.

What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was growing impatient to meet again with the most insufferable person he knew, who hardly followed instructions on a good day and filled the air with noise and distractions. Lambert would snicker, and Vesemir would be proud. 

His heart felt too big in his chest when he finally caught sight of the bright doublet and the unruly mop of hair, somewhere in Kerack. Jaskier was sitting on a wall in a busy marketplace, showing women and children and guards alike how to pinch cords on the lute. If the bard made a lot of enemies among married folk, he was also good with people, sharing his love with music and life with everyone willing to listen.

 _You’re not special_ , a little nagging voice in his head said, _he would follow anyone who’d let him._ But the smile that flashed on Jaskier’s face when he saw Geralt was genuine. 

“Where to, my dear witcher?” he asked. He brushed his pants and apologized to the small crowd for leaving like that – “Adventure is calling,” he told them.

“I know a place,” Geralt said, suddenly hesitant – maybe that was a dumb idea and he shouldn’t even try – “I think you’d like it.” 

Jaskier beamed and followed, horseless again but this time because his gelding was resting after an injury. “I was galloping away, trying to escape a mob of ruffians,” he explained, and Geralt could easily picture angry town folks with pitchforks, running after him through the woods, “and my poor Pegasus tripped. We still made it, but he’s hurt and needs a break.” 

It wasn’t far anyway, a little fisherman cabin near a lake so small one could call it a pond. Jaskier found the place beautiful and peaceful, and no matter how hard Geralt studied his face or his body language, he couldn’t tell if the bard was being sincere or not. He had every right not to like it there, and yet he settled on the cabin’s porch, content and waxing poetic already.

“I think,” Geralt said, “that you need to learn how to swim.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier just said. He took out his lute to try out some tunes. 

“I’m serious,” the witcher insisted. “You need to–”

“More patient men have already tried,” Jaskier said without raising his head. “I’m useless in water. My mother even used to think it was a curse.” 

“And yet, here we are,” Geralt smirked as he used Jaskier’s line. 

“Just tell me you won’t get mad when it doesn’t go the way you want,” Jaskier sighed, more resigned than apprehensive. 

“I promise,” Geralt swore.

They set up camp around the cabin, then ate lunch, using the slanted roof to stay in the shade. It was warm for the season, and not a cloud passed overhead. It felt nice to relax for once; Geralt oiled his armor and laid it out on the grass, before taking out his swords for inspection. Jaskier busied himself with sheets of music, something about a new piece for an upcoming banquet in Cintra, and Geralt listened without trying to offer criticism. 

“How do witchers learn how to swim?” Jaskier finally asked.

Geralt tried to remember something a little more useful than, ‘we get chucked into the water and mostly figure it out on our own.’

“You have no idea how to proceed, haven’t you?” Jaskier laughed when the silence stretched for a little too long. “I don’t mind,” he reassured, “at least I know you won’t hit me when I fail.” 

Geralt shook his head, appalled by the way nobles raised their children. But that was how a lot of people viewed the world, expecting others to conform, and resorting to violence when they couldn’t.

“Take off your clothes,” he blurted out, and Jaskier chuckled and complied, making a show out of it. 

They got into the clear water, up to mid thigh. The lake was so shallow and the sand so light that it had already warmed up under the sun. Jaskier never once let it transpire that he was scared or even uncomfortable. 

“Your lungs,” Geralt said with a deep breath to emphasize his words, “act as a buoy.” 

Jaskier looked at him with his head cocked to the side, puzzled. He had clearly not been expecting a lecture on human physiology. 

“So if you fill your lungs with air, you shouldn’t sink.” 

“‘Shouldn’t’ being the operative word here,” Jaskier remarked. “I’m going to sink anyway. I always do.”

Geralt didn’t bother asking if he trusted him. He kneeled on the sandy bottom, with only his head and torso above water. There wasn’t any wind, not a single ripple on the surface once he stilled. No drowners lurking about, no mud, no depth to be dragged to. 

“Turn around, then fall backwards,” he said.

Jaskier complied, muttering that it felt like a dumb team building exercise and that he wasn’t a good team player and… He complained uninterruptedly but still did it, and Geralt caught him easily with large hands under his shoulder blades, making sure his head didn’t dip under the water.

“Straighten out your legs,” Geralt said, “and breathe,” he reminded. 

Jaskier muttered again, certain it would fail and he would sink; but he obeyed again, toes pointing at the sky. He tried to use his arms, but Geralt stopped his short-lived attempt to flail about. He guided his hands back into the water, along his thighs; never gripping, but using light touches to correct his posture until Jaskier was floating on his back, mostly on his own.

“I thought you were going to teach me to swim,” Jaskier said, a little too loud because his ears were in the water.

He sounded impatient and frustrated, which was such a Jaskier thing. From what Geralt had gathered, he had been a great student and became an acclaimed teacher; he could master any instrument he set his mind to and spoke several languages, maybe more than Geralt himself. And he could fight too, the witcher had seen him hold his ground against a noble once, after the man had thrown his gauntlet at the bard’s face – something about a sister’s honor. Jaskier could use a rapier, even though he ultimately decided to run away mid-fight. 

He gave Jaskier’s shoulders a light push, sending him floating farther, and the bard didn’t panic, didn’t try to stop the sudden motion. Either he knew the water wasn’t deep and he could stand anytime he wanted, or he just appreciated the feeling, curiosity overcoming his doubts.

“Floating is just the first step,” Geralt explained from where he stood. “You shouldn’t be scared of the water.” 

“I’m not afraid,” Jaskier protested, and he tried to twist to look at Geralt, disrupting his precarious balance. “I just don’t think– ack!”

He tumbled and dipped underwater, then back above, treading haphazardly. His movements were uncoordinated at best, but it kept him afloat, and Geralt smiled.

“This feels like a lot of work,” Jaskier mumbled, mouth barely above the lake.

“It is,” Geralt said, coming closer.

He mimicked Jaskier’s position, which was hard because the water wasn’t deep at all, and did his best to show him how to move his arms to stabilize himself. 

“You have a lot more muscles than I do,” Jaskier whined. 

“Hmm.” 

“I’m still not swimming,” Jaskier complained.

“Swimming is just the horizontal version of what you’re currently doing,” Geralt said. “Push the water behind you instead of around.”

As expected, Jaskier ended up swallowing some water before giving up, but he was smiling as he coughed and spat. Once they got on the ground to dry, lying in grass warmed up by the afternoon sun, he couldn’t stop talking about the sensations of the new found concept that was swimming.

It was only practical, Geralt reasoned; he had to make sure his companion could follow him anywhere safely. But if he was totally honest, it just felt great to hear Jaskier so excited about something as childish as jumping in a lake. He found out that he couldn’t wait to try again, even if it meant missing out on a few contracts.


End file.
